Warring World
by sydneysages
Summary: Sam and Connie compete to see who can treat the most patients in cubicles, with hilarious consequences, a ridiculous amount of flirting, and the revelation of a secret relationship to the ED. /Strachamp oneshot, can be read separately but also can be read in conjunction with Facing the Future.


**So this is a Strachamp one shot, written maybe two or three months into their "relationship", so they're still semi-official.**

 **It's a scene that I wanted to write for my Multichapter (Facing the Future), but couldn't justify writing for it, so decided to do it as a oneshot.**

 **It does make sense as a standalone, but if you want more specific context for some of the references, they're in the MC**

* * *

"So, darling, I understand that you think I'm _slow_ at work," Sam begins slowly, almost slyly, and Connie blushes a little.

They're in bed, and it's the early hours of the morning or the late hours of the night before, but they've lost all track of the meaning of time. Their conversation, as always, lasted for hours, because a lot more happened in a decade than either of them had previously realised. Usually, the deal is that they don't talk about work, but they both lapse in judgement slightly, especially when it's to do with the other one.

This – this semi-official, serious and yet fun relationship – has been going on for about two or three months now, and it feels as if they've never been apart and also as if this is as new as anything at the same time. When she's with him, she doesn't want him to leave.

"Well…" Connie says, elongating the word in an attempt to buy herself some time. Thankfully, they're lying so that she's facing away from him, with just his arm looped over her. At least she doesn't have to avoid eye contact, to stop him from seeing that she's lying. "I mean, I wouldn't say you're _slow_. You just like to make sure that your patient's condition is confirmed. Who said that, anyway?"

"So you think I'm slow," Sam replies, sounding hurt. _Too_ hurt for Connie's ears; he's clearly putting it on. "That's not very nice, is it?"

"Who told you?" Connie demands, craning her neck to try and turn to see Sam's face. "And I didn't say you were slow!"

"Don't try and change the subject, Con," Sam murmurs. "Doesn't matter who told me – because you said it."

"Alright, _fine_ ," Connie says, sighing. She sounds like a petulant child – fitting, given Sam's the adult equivalent of a ten year old boy. "I said that you were _maybe_ a little slower than some of the other doctors. But that's fine – I'd be worried if you weren't! I mean, you're a cardiothoracic consultant, not a specialist in Emergency Medicine…"

"But _you_ cope perfectly fine – I've seen it myself."

" _I've_ spent three years practicing, sweetheart. And I did my training beforehand…it's not a _bad_ thing to be slow sometimes, though. Means that you know that you're treating your patients right. It's just not good to be slow in resus."

She's twisted now so that she's facing Sam, rather than trying to face him, and she realises afterwards that the term of endearment just slipped out. Where before, she only felt comfortable using terms like 'sweetheart' and 'darling' with Grace, now they're natural to use with Sam, too.

His eyebrows are raised, almost as if he's proposing a challenge without speaking, and she's unable to draw her eyes away from his face. He's so handsome when he's cheeky, she thinks fondly, even more handsome than normal.

"I have an idea," Sam begins, propping his head up on one elbow. His arm's still across Connie, and she feels his warmth pass through to her. "I propose a competition. Prove exactly who is faster, once and for all."

Connie rolls her eyes, and lifts one hand to Sam's face, where she cups his cheek gently. "I don't want to be mean, darling, but that's the stupidest thing you've ever suggested," she says softly. "Can you imagine what the team would say if we went in saying that we're going to compete over who treats more patients? _And_ , let's not forget, they don't know we're together."

Sam's expression is cheekier than ever. "Well, I mean, I spend so much time in your office, they'd have to be blind not to suspect something," Sam responds. "And anyway, it's not to treat patients who actually really _need_ treating. No, I don't mean that. I mean…patients with the flu. Patients who have a broken arm and need it putting in a cast. Ones with something in their hand or their ear or something. The ones that clutter up the ED and put pressure on us achieving our KPIs for the cases which are actually difficult."

Connie knows that she doesn't look convinced, which is probably why Sam adds, "plus, I mean, you'd get to prove to the department once and for all that you're better. Or, well, not. But what harm could it do, if all we're doing is treating patients a little bit faster?"

He leans across and kisses her forehead, and it's absolutely one hundred percent emotional blackmail, because whenever has she managed to say no to him when he's kissed her? She hasn't, and he knows it.

"Fine," she grumbles. "We do the competition. But not tomorrow. Maybe the day after, when we've informed the rest of the team that it's happening. And if it compromises patient care in the _slightest_ , we stop." She still hasn't told him why she prioritises patient care so much, and he hasn't asked. Some things need a bit more time – and trust – to explain.

"Why the rest of the team?"

"Well, we might as well let them put bets on," she explains, sighing a little. Her department's love to gamble quite frankly scares her. "If they're focused on that, they might focus a little less on the _us_ part of the scenario. Plus, we can raise some money for charity. Maybe for MND." He _does_ know about Alfred, and so he murmurs in agreement.

She still has no idea about the fact that the team have a bet on who her next romance will be with – and neither of them have a clue that the odds on Connie/Sam have dropped to 3/2.

* * *

.x.

* * *

"Have you heard?" Noel asks nobody in particular as he enters the staff room.

"Heard what?" Robyn replies.

"About Mrs Beauchamp and Mr Strachan!" Noel adds, and this gets everyone's attention.

"What do you mean?" Elle asks, curiosity piqued.

"They're having a competition!" Noel replies proudly, and everyone groans.

"Noel, you made it sound like that was the outcome of the bet," Max grumbles. "I mean, _my_ money's still on it, but yes, anyway, moving the conversation _back_ to before Noel entered the room…"

"No!" Noel declares emphatically, walking across the room as he brandishes a poster. "Mrs Beauchamp asked me to make this poster…essentially, they're having a sort of informal competition as to whom treats the most patients in cubicles tomorrow. No danger to patient welfare or care."

"Now why would they want to do that…?" Elle asks quietly, trailing off as she looks at nothing in particular. "Not unless…no, surely not?" It's clear exactly what Elle's thinking: that they're together.

"And now the odds are even on Sam Strachan!" Max declares before whistling into his hands. "Victory will be Max Walker's…"

" _And_ ," Noel adds, proudly. "Mrs B's specifically asked _me_ to organise a bet on who we think will win. All proceeds to charity. So, let's begin…"

* * *

.x.

* * *

The day of the competition arrives, and Connie arrives at work half an hour before Sam. Though she had stayed at his once again the night before, she's still not keen on the idea of her not-yet-official relationship being common knowledge, and tongues wag in the ED. Especially when two people walk in together, it seems.

And yet, at the same time, she's reached the stage where she's not sure if she _cares_ if people know that she's with Sam. That's partially why she's agreed to this competition – there's no way that they'll be able to resist flirting for most of the day. Between the murderous glares, of course.

"Ah, Mr Strachan," Connie says sharply as Sam approaches the work desk a minute before the competition is scheduled to start. "Nice of you to join us." It's hard to make her voice sharp when, really, he's actually done nothing wrong.

Around them is half of the department staff, including a fair few who aren't rota'd in to work. Word got around fast, and Connie's heard rumours that she's the favourite to win. Not that that's surprising, of course. Though she plans to make it an interesting day – and she _doesn't_ intend to work herself to death. No, she knows exactly what she can do to make it fun.

"Wouldn't dare be late to the competition of the decade, Mrs Beauchamp," Sam replies with a grin and a wink. "Hope you're prepared to lose to the ED's newest registrar."

She fixes him with a stare before turning back to the group of staff in front of her. "Well, everyone knows their assignments for the day. The activities in cubicles will not compromise patient care, and are intended solely to be a little fun to mix up one of our quieter days. If you have any concerns _at all_ , please let me know and we will suspend the proceedings. Unless anyone has any questions, I'll let you all get back to work."

Connie makes brief eye contact with Jacob, before looking away. She's deliberately hinted to Charlie to keep him away from cubicles today, and thankfully it looks like Jacob's taken his fellow nurse's hinting on board. It's strange enough working with him _and_ Sam in the ED – it would be even stranger for him to be assisting either herself or Sam during this game.

"Mrs Beauchamp?" Max calls, diverting Connie's attention. "I have a question."

"Yes, Max?"

"What does the winner get? I mean, you're competing which is great and stuff, but is there a victory speech? Victory drinks for the winner's supporting team? A declaration of some form…?"

Connie's brow furrows at the last point, because she doesn't quite understand what he means, and Max immediately shuts up; he doesn't need the subtle elbow from Noel to stop him from mentioning the bet.

Exchanging a glance with Sam, Connie shrugs a little. "Er, well…" She begins, but doesn't know what to say.

"The winner gets eternal bragging rights, and an all expenses paid – paid for by the other person – dinner with Henrik Hanssen," Sam interrupts, winking at Max. His hints about Connie and Henrik have become much more prominent, though Connie still has no clue what he's talking about. "I also thought that maybe, we could let Grace cut the loser's hair…I mean, Mrs Beauchamp would look lovely with a pixie cut, wouldn't she?"

Connie catches his expression, and sees the look in his eye: memories mellowed with time, combined with a flirty competitive streak, entirely befitting their relationship.

" _Well_ , I think it's time that I go and treat some patients, everyone," Connie says, ignoring Sam's comments, though she can't quite keep the smile off of her face. "Enjoy Mr Strachan's audible monologue, everyone."

And with that, she grabs the first file from the pile and heads to cubicle six.

* * *

.x.

* * *

"Have you put a bet on?" Sam hears Noel say – probably a bit more loudly than intended – to someone at the work desk.

"Of course," Robyn replies. "Fifteen on Mrs B. That woman can run in _Louboutins_. Sam hasn't got a chance."

"Oh," Noel replies, sounding slightly deflated. "Another one for Mrs B. I'm beginning to think that this is an unfair fight."

Sam sighs as he waits around the corner for a patient to come back from the toilet before he can assess him. He knew he'd be the underdog – not only is he new, but he's the hated former Medical Director – but he thought he could count on at least some of the nurses, if not the doctors.

"Why, is Connie really far in front?" Robyn asks, sounding intrigued.

"Let's put it this way: if the race was to go for eternal life, like Voldemort, Mrs B would have about fifty horcruxes. Sam would have about three."

Robyn laughs. "Noel, you really need to work on your analogies. Hey, Doctor Keogh, have you betted on Mrs Beauchamp versus Mr Strachan?"

Internally, Sam groans. He doesn't need to hear, once again, Dylan's opinion of him.

"Absolutely," Dylan replies. "Since it's for charity and all – and it gets our notorious registrar actually doing some work."

"So you're voting for _Sam_?" Noel asks, clearly confused.

"Have you completely lost your marbles?" Dylan says. "Five pounds on Connie. And if she loses, I'm very concerned about who we've got as our Clinical Lead. Robyn, shouldn't you be checking on Mrs Peters in HDC?"

Realising that his patient is back, Sam skulks away from the team desk, determined to treat this patient quickly – and well. He's currently on patient number four within an hour, and he's almost certain that Connie's on her second, third at best.

He can win this – probably.

* * *

.x.

* * *

"Ah, Mr Strachan, is that _another_ patient file I see?" Connie asks, a flirty undertone to her voice despite the fact that their colleagues are almost surrounding them. "That takes you to what, twelve?"

She continues to write something in her patient's file as she speaks, so misses the all-knowing look which passes between Louise and David. They know.

"You must be getting worried if you're keeping track so early on in the day," Sam replies smugly. "What are you on, four? Must have lost that razor-sharp Beauchamp touch you had upstairs."

With this, Connie looks up and smiles primly, a mixture of competitiveness and flirting etched into every caveat across her face, as she shoots back, "but you see, the difference between you and me is that I actually like a challenge." She takes a step closer to him, and though they're still a metre apart, the energy between them is electric. It's as if they're in their own little world. "So you take the ingrown toenail. I guess we'll see who wins later."

Before anyone can interrupt them, Connie turns and walks away swiftly, her hair swishing over her shoulder and across her back. She doesn't look, though she can feel Sam's gaze on her back, probably venting a mixture of irritation, frustration and pent-up sexual tension.

She's currently working slower than he is. Even though she wants to win, she's still determined to make a bit more of a connection with most patients; it's one element of Sam's bedside manner that she's always been a little envious of. So if that means that she spends an extra minute explaining something to them, she's going to do it. Damn the competition.

Plus, Connie doesn't _want_ to take the easy cases. Give Sam the chance to work himself ragged treating ten patients an hour with their sprained ankles and questionable flatulence. Later on, he'll regret it.

* * *

.x.

* * *

It's even more fun than Sam thought it was going to be, setting yet another file down on his completed pile and seeing it soar high above Connie's. He's going to have to build a second stack at this rate – probably before lunch.

He's curious as to what her game is; the Connie Beauchamp he knows would never allow anybody to beat her, let alone a registrar.

Let alone _him_.

There's always been a form of a game between the pair of them in all elements of their life. A competition as to whom comes up with the best treatment plan for a patient – and who could do it first. A competition between them for their daughter's love and affection. All out war in their personal lives – until, suddenly, an uneasy peace, an uncertain ceasefire as they try and figure out whether Sam Strachan and Connie Beauchamp could ever be compatible long-term.

In a way, this competition could be good for them. It'll allow them to vent off some of the competitive element of their relationship, and keep the rest of it fun – or serious, dependent on the day. Plus, it's a good way to essentially show the team that they're together, without necessarily having to formally declare it. Connie's never exactly been good at declarations of a personal nature, at least not in the time Sam's known her. Maybe before Michael, she was better. But he doubts it.

"Sam." A voice calls his name, and it takes a few seconds to realise who it is.

Jacob.

Sam turns, hand still on top of the pile of files, to see Jacob standing with his arms crossed, towering over him. It's as if he wants to make Sam feel small – which he is anything but.

"Yes?"

"Can I have a word in the staffroom, please?" Jacob almost spits out. "Now?"

Sam sighs, thoughts immediately turning away from the competition and his exciting, new relationship with Connie towards Jacob and the emotional baggage leftover from her relationship with _him_.

"Sure," Sam says amiably, doing his best to maintain a neutral and steady atmosphere. "Be through in a sec." He doesn't elaborate on what he'll do; he just can't resist a form of power-play with someone who is essentially his rival for Connie Beauchamp.

There's a moment where he makes eye contact with Jacob and sees a man who wants to deck him. But then the anger dissipates, and leaves a man who looks defensively in love.

.

Five minutes later, Sam walks through to the staffroom and closes the door, both apprehensive and relieved to see that, apart from Jacob, it's empty.

"I've put the kettle on," Jacob says, surprisingly warmly. Well, not warm, but as warm as Jacob's ever gotten with Sam. "You do drink instant, right?"

Sam grimaces a little, but nods. "Yeah, I take it black. Cheers." Then, in his attempt to be friendly, he adds, "I probably should stop making coffee. It's going to reach the stage where all anyone in here thinks I do is drink coffee…"

"Drink coffee and compete with the Clinical Lead," Jacob corrects him, most of his earlier warmth eradicated. "And be an awful bureaucrat."

Sam feels himself start to get a little irritated. Did he ask for Jacob's opinion on his time as MD? No, he didn't think so. "Well, that's all in the past, isn't it?" he replies, opening his arms wide as he grins. Only after he says it, does he realise the potential double meaning to Jacob's relationship with Connie.

Handing Sam his coffee, Jacob takes a seat at the breakfast bar, the chair creaking a little under his frame. "So, a competition, huh?"

Sam takes a sip of the coffee – nowhere near strong enough, but passable for instant – before setting it down. "Yeah," he replies, not entirely sure what to say.

"You should be careful," Jacob warns, and Sam immediately feels his heckles rising. Why, exactly, is he being given advice when he's the one who's known Connie the longest out of anyone in the department?

"And why exactly is that?" Sam asks through gritted teeth.

"Because you don't know her like I do," Jacob retorts, and Sam has to laugh. "She doesn't like to lose."

Sam fixes him with a stare that would make Connie proud. "So she's exactly the same Connie Beauchamp as she was in Darwin. Believe me, I've felt her wrath a thousand and one times. I'm well aware of how to handle her."

Jacob raises an eyebrow. "Are you sure? She's changed – and _you_ , well, you haven't been here." There's an attack hidden between the words, but Sam's not down for a fight with Connie's ex-boyfriend.

"Well aware of that fact," Sam replies, cool and clipped. "I knew her before and I know her now better than you'd think. So thanks for the advice, but I'm not going to let Connie win just to make her feel better. Because if you really knew her like I do, you'd know that she'd hate it even more if she thought that I'd gone easy on her to let her win. I'd best be getting back to work."

Sam turns and walks towards the door, but stops when Jacob says, "so it's true then, what people are saying?"

Without turning back, Sam replies, "I don't know what people are saying. But I know that she's happy. And that's all that matters."

* * *

.x.

* * *

It's almost lunchtime, and Sam's still streaks ahead of Connie in the patient file numbers.

"I might go for lunch," Sam says slyly to Connie as she fills out a prescription form. "You'd best work to try – _try_ – and catch me up. Otherwise, it's getting embarrassing."

"Oh no, why would I do that?" Connie replies absently, focusing on the spelling of her prescription. "I've got plans."

"You've got _plans_?" Sam repeats, incredulous. Whilst they've still not labelled themselves, he's pretty sure that they're exclusive – and Connie Beauchamp doesn't _do_ casual lunches. Unless it's with Elliot Hope, of course. "More important than beating me?"

Connie looks up and smiles, and the only thing that Sam can compare it to is a ray of sunshine. It brightens up her face, and he doesn't think he's ever seen anything more beautiful.

"You sound shocked," Connie murmurs, so that the ubiquitous gaggle of staff observing their competition can't hear. "But yes, I would rather eat lunch with Grace than work my fingers to the bone to beat you, Mr Strachan. I'm sure you understand."

She sees his expression change to become a strange mixture of happiness and confusion. He doesn't understand how she's so blasé, she can tell, though she's also well aware that he has no clue how she's going to pull this back. It's a good job that he doesn't read through the paperwork very often…

"But you're going to lose…?" Sam asks, taking a step closer to Connie. His tone becomes flirtatious, almost whining, as he adds, "I know that Grace is very important, but I don't think that she'll appreciate being used as a tool to explain why you lost the bet, Con."

"Ah, using our child as emotional blackmail, I understand your tactic, Mr Strachan," Connie shoots back, though it's clear she doesn't mean what she says. At least, she hopes it's clear. "I don't need to cancel lunch to beat you, dar-Sam, it's all in hand." She blushes, flustered a little, as she realises she almost called him _darling_. At work! Oh what has she become?

Sam smirks a little. "No worries, Con… _stance_ ," he says, deliberately pausing. Whilst he never calls her Constance – nobody has, other than her parents – he's started calling her Con, and she likes it, a lot. "Enjoy your break. I'll treat all your patients for you."

.

At the same time as Connie's talking to Sam, Robyn, Max and Charlie are standing on the other side of the workbench.

"They've forgotten we're here, haven't they?" Charlie says with amusement.

"This is so cute!" Robyn declares, rubbing her hands together underneath her chin. "I mean, I _knew_ that there was something going on, but it's just so cute."

Max turns to look at her, a critically questioning expression on his face. "You knew something was going on? Why didn't you update the bookmakers? We're supposed to be family!"

She shoots him a glare back. "Because, Max, not everything's about money! And they're just so cute…it's as if they're different people when they're together."

"Yeah, she hasn't shot any icy stares at anyone for a few weeks," Max muses, "and I haven't seen him try and sack anyone recently. Must have had personality transplants."

"Watch it," Charlie says, warningly. "I think it's lovely – not that we need to gossip, of course. It's just very nice that they have each other again. _If_ something is going on."

"She's still going to demolish him in this competition though," Robyn comments. "There's _no_ way she'd let him win at anything."

* * *

.x.

* * *

Connie returns to work an hour and a half later, during which time Sam's cleared every single cubicle and is sitting smugly at the workbench upon her return.

"How is Grace?" Sam asks, a wicked grin on his face.

"She's _very_ disappointed that you wanted to beat her mum in a competition so badly that you didn't want to come to lunch," Connie replies, stepping a little closer to the desk. They're standing on opposite sides, but they're standing so close that they're only centimetres apart. "You'll have to make it up to her. _After_ I win, of course."

"Of course," Sam retorts, raising his eyebrows. "But there's no patients at the moment, Connie. How are you going to claw back this sixty patient deficit?"

"With ease," she replies, smiling widely in a way that she usually reserves for after-hours. "Because as of, oh, three minutes ago, I have fourteen patients."

"What?" he half-shouts, standing up in shock. "How? We don't have any suitable patients waiting in the waiting room!"

A coy smile playing on her lips, Connie steps back from the workstation and heads backwards towards the minor injuries unit, maintaining eye contact with Sam. "Because, Mr Strachan, when cubicles are empty, we support other areas of the department. And, at this moment, minors is looking a _little_ busy, so I'm supporting them. You should support…resus. I'm sure you'll get _lots_ of patients in there."

As she walks away, she knows that Sam's eyes are on her – this time, in disbelief and irritation at how well she's played him. But this is only stage one of her journey to victory.

* * *

.x.

* * *

"Connie," Sam says through gritted teeth as he stands behind her in cubicle twelve. "Are you having a laugh?"

"What?" she asks as she assesses her patient's ankle. "It doesn't look broken, but I'll send you for an x-ray anyway," she adds to the patient, Miranda, on the bed. "Can you organise that please, Louise?"

"You've delayed my test results!"

Connie turns and faces him, a small smile on her lips. "I've done no such thing, Sam. Don't you have patients to see?"

He narrows his eyes at her before following her out of the cubicle.

"I haven't got any to assess because I'm waiting on _test results_. And I can't _get_ these test results, because when I rang the lab they said that they're working on them, but Mrs Beauchamp's are the priority!"

"Ohhhh, you mean I've delayed your test results _that_ way…" Connie replies, acting as if she's only just realised what he means. "Well, yes, that's technically true, but I've assessed your patient notes, and mine are definitely more urgent. And it's not a major delay – just five minutes."

"You're endangering my patients' care," he fires back, a low blow – and he knows it.

The smile falls from her lips as she stares back at him, her hands on her hips. "Which is the priority, Sam: an eighty year old woman with a potential chest infection, or a twenty year old with, what was it, a bruised thumb?"

"Bruised hand in general," Sam corrects, but he sighs. "Okay, yes, the eighty year old woman in _that_ scenario. But what about the others?"

"I asked them to prioritise _one_ case, Sam!" Connie hisses. Whilst this is still a competition, at this moment in time, it's exactly the opposite of fun. "The requirement of this _game_ was that patient care is uncompromised. How many times do I have to say it?"

"Okay, okay," Sam says, pacifyingly as he holds his hands in the air. "I'm sorry, truly. I shouldn't have said that. I'm going to walk away now and treat a patient."

"Yes. Do that."

(Across the workstation, Robyn and Max exchange surprised looks, and update the specially formed online ED forum on the latest Connie/Sam development…)

* * *

.x.

* * *

The competition's due to finish officially at 5pm, at the conclusion of both Connie and Sam's shifts, so they meet at the workstation at five to. Whilst Connie's certainly made up a lot of ground in the afternoon, primarily due to the inclusion of twenty minors patients whose care was almost complete when she took them on, Sam's stacks are still substantially higher.

"So, is there anything you'd like to say?" Sam says as he sidles up to Connie's left hand side, leaning forwards with both hands on the desk beside her. "An apology? I mean, I'd be willing to reconsider even _having_ this competition if you grovelled…"

She shoots him a knowing smile, and decides to reveal her trump card.

Connie pulls the top file from the stack of Sam's cases closest to her, and briefly assesses his notes. She adds a mark on the third line down, then, in the very, very bottom box of the page, she signs her name: C Beauchamp.

And finally, she sets it on her own pile.

"What?" Sam shouts, catching the attention of every staff member in the vicinity. "That's cheating!"

" _Technically_ speaking, a registrar's case isn't signed off until a consultant authorises the treatment," Connie explains as she reads the second file. "If there are no amendments to make, it remains your case. However, if the consultant – or Clinical Lead, in the weekly audits – has to make _any_ form of amendment, be it to clarify your practice or to ensure the grammar is up to scratch, it becomes their patient file. And even then, it's still yours – _unless_ the consultant wants to claim them. It's a paperwork technicality, Mr Strachan, that has existed since before you started practicing medicine."

He stands in silence, completely flabbergasted, and she takes a brief pause to look up at his expression. It's everything she wanted – and more. For whilst he's technically won the challenge, she officially has. And that's all that matters: in a way, it's the best of both worlds. All rewards are hers to reap, however.

"Go Mrs B!" A chant rises on the other side of the workstation, albeit rather quietly, and Connie smiles. It's reassuring to see that her team still supports her.

"I just don't understand _how_ ," Sam moans into his hands, taking a step back before sinking to the floor. "I can't believe it. I worked _so hard_."

"Indeed you did," Connie comments, pacifyingly in the same manner as Sam spoke earlier. "And this one doesn't need any changes. So here, I'll add this to your stack."

By the time five o'clock hits, Connie's amended just enough of Sam's cases to take her to one case above. A small victory – but it stands.

"I can't believe this," Sam mutters as he stands up and faces Connie.

Looking at him, all she wants to do is kiss him, because even though she's beaten him, it's Sam she wants to share her victory with. She stares into his eyes, not speaking, and he stares back; it's as if they're alone, with nobody else in the room, because she's consumed by him, and him her.

And then someone coughs, and the spell is temporarily broken.

She looks up and briefly makes eye contact with Jacob, before he turns away, towards resus. Evidently, he knows.

"Well, I can't believe it, but congratulations," Sam says to Connie, a small smile playing on his lips. "Trust Mrs Beauchamp to exploit an administrative loophole, am I right?" he adds, directing this to the nearby staff members.

"Noel, can you please tell me how much has been raised for charity?" Connie asks.

"Er, five hundred and four pounds," Noel replies proudly. "Added it all up myself."

"Someone had best check that then," Max adds, causing a chorus of laughter.

Connie smiles, and looks fleetingly back at Sam, and sees nothing but affection on his face. It's all been just a game – but she's still got her prize to claim. In private, though, obviously. And she might have to substitute Henrik Hanssen for a particular specialist registrar…

"I'm hoping that we can draw a line under today, and _not_ constantly tease Mr Strachan for his inability to read paperwork guidelines," Connie says, addressing the team. "But thank you all very much for your participation and assistance, and of course for your generous donations. I'm sure that the MND foundation will appreciate every penny. Thank you all."

"Out of curiosity," Max begins, "what was the donation split?"

"Oh, we don't need to hear that," Sam interrupts hastily. "All that matters is that we raised such a substantial amount of money…"

However, Noel's already clearing his throat as he picks up his piece of paper once more. "Right, so Mrs Beauchamp acquired three hundred and four pounds…Mr Strachan, two hundred pounds exactly…though one hundred and fifty was from a J Byrne…hang on, we don't have a Byrne here, do we?"

"And with that, I think it's time that I finish off some paperwork in my office," Connie declares quickly, before anyone can question exactly whom J Byrne is. "Mr Strachan, a hand with all the files?"

* * *

.x.

* * *

As soon as her office door is closed and they're out of the line of sight of the annoying glass pane, Connie reaches up and kisses Sam, wrapping her fingers in his hair.

"Congratulations," he murmurs into her lips, and she giggles a little. What has he made her?

"Thank you for making it such a challenge to beat you," she replies, stepping away from him. "Come on, remember, the deal was that we're professional at work."

He raises his eyebrows and stands with his hands on his hips, mimicking her stance from earlier. "In that case, I'd like to complain that my line manager has begun acting inappropriately with me. I mean, kissing in the workplace? Sacrilegious."

She smiles and turns away to sort the files on her desk.

"So…" Sam adds, moving across to help her. "Joe got involved, did he?"

Connie blushes, and avoids eye contact. "I mean, he did work with us…it's plausible."

Gently, Sam reaches across and lifts Connie's chin so that she's looking at him, and she knows that he can tell that it's complete bollocks. As far as she's aware, Joseph's enjoying the countryside as a GP with his son, probably married to someone the complete opposite of Jac Naylor. It's hard to forget the ones that you love the most unless you avoid all reminders of them.

"You knew they wouldn't back me," he deducts, "and you wanted a reference that would only mean something to us. You know, you're more than just a pretty face, Con."

"I know," she retorts. "In all honesty, I think everyone knows that. But I didn't want to damage your already fragile ego by beating you in the competition _and_ the fundraising stakes. It might be a surprise, sweetheart, but I actually quite like your ego."

He leans over and presses his lips to hers gently, before leaning back again, though he keeps his hand on her cheek. "Next competition, there'll be no hidden administrative technicalities. It'll be just you and me, Con. No wriggling out of it."

"Oh, believe me, I don't plan on wriggling out of _anything_."

* * *

 **Please let me know your thoughts on the oneshot!**


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